World's End

by Upton Sinclair

  Robbie smiled. “My son sees them on the Place in front of his hotel.” It was packed with rows of cannon of every type, howitzers, mortars, field-guns—captured German pieces with the marks of war on them, and now rusting in the rain.

  “It is terrible, Mr. Budd, all those goods which cannot even be covered up: shells that they were ready to fire, boots they were going to wear. Now they do not know what to do with it all. To take things back to England—that is possible; but all the way to America—will it pay the cost of crating and shipping?”

  “We have been figuring on it, and it won’t,” said Robbie Budd. “The army has a commission here, trying to dispose of the stuff.”

  “Well, Mr. Budd, I am a man who knows how to sell things. I know dealers all over Europe. And I have ideas. I wake up in the middle of the night, because one has stung me, like it might be—what is it?—abeille—”

  “A bee,” said Lanny.

  “For example?” said Robbie.

  “Well, hand grenades; there are millions of them—”

  “We made a quarter of a million for our army.”

  “And now they are somewhere out in the mud of Lorraine. You know what they look like; I don’t need to describe them.”

  “What would you do with them?”

  “First I unload them. I have a mass of black powder, which I put up in bags. I know a man who supplies mining companies in Chile, Peru, all those countries. Then I cut off the handles; tomorrow I will find something to do with them. Then I have a little round metal box; it has a pretty shape, it sits up on end; I cut a slot in the top, and there you are.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is a children’s bank, where they drop their pennies, their pfennigs, their sous, their soldi—in every country they have little coins for the poor.”

  Robbie and his son couldn’t keep from laughing. Such an odd idea: a hand grenade, the quintessence of destructiveness, made into a children’s bank, the symbol of thrift. Swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks!

  Mr. Robin laughed too, but only for a moment. “You don’t know what a market it is, Mr. Budd. You don’t know the homes of the poor, as I do.”

  “But they have no money now.”

  “They will get these small coins; and they will starve themselves and save—maybe to pay off a mortgage, maybe to buy a cow, or for a girl’s dowry—such things as the peasants hope for. A bank is something sacred, it comes next to the crucifix; it teaches virtue, it is a witness and a reminder; the family that has it has something to live for. If there is peace, on next Christmas Day a million peasant women will give such banks to their children.”

  “Christmas is a long way off, Mr. Robin.”

  “You would not say that if you knew the novelty trade. Next summer we start to travel for our Christmas trade; and meantime I am finding the agents, I am sending them the samples and the circulars and the contracts; and all that I have to get ready. If I have a couple of hundred thousand banks that have cost me only a few cents each, I know I can sell them, and just where and how. And that is only one small deal, Mr. Budd. I will find a hundred bargains, and a use for each.”

  “Have you thought about storage costs?”

  “In the old city where I live are hundreds of warehouses, and no longer will they be full of goods when ships can go directly into Germany. They are on the canals, and goods come by the rivers or the sea—there is cheap transport to every part of the world. All that is needed is cash to buy—and to do it quickly, before someone else snaps up the bargain. I am so certain of the profits that I am offering to go fifty-fifty with you; I will give all my time and experience, I will do the work, and pay you half the profits. We will form a company, and your name will be kept out of it—I know that you do not want your name in small business like this. It will be a quick thing—in a year it will be over, and I would not dare to tell you how many hundred percent we will clear, because then you would be sure that I must be a swindler.”

  IX

  Lanny watched these two traders, smoking their cigars and knocking the ashes into the dregs of their coffee cups; he amused himself trying to guess what was going on in their minds. He himself kept silent, knowing that this wasn’t his job. He personally would have been willing to trust the Jewish dealer, because he liked him. But Robbie didn’t like Jews; his view was that of society people who don’t want them in their fraternities or clubs. Robbie would sometimes make playful remarks based upon the assumption that Jews went into bankruptcy freely, and set fire to their warehouses and stores when the season became slack. “Fur stores burn in February”—all that sort of thing.

  Would Mr. Robin be aware of that attitude? Lanny guessed that this shrewd fellow knew everything that concerned himself and his affairs; he would anticipate the attitude of fashionable gentiles listening to his business “spiel” and watching the play of his hands and shoulders.

  “Look, Mr. Budd,” said the dealer in gadgets. “I come to you a stranger, and perhaps I have nerve to talk money to you. But I have business connections, I have a reputation in my home city; my creditors and bankers will tell you. But more important yet is that you should know me as a man. If I may speak to you frankly, and from my heart, and not feel that I am boring you …?”

  “I have been interested in you ever since Lanny told me about you, Mr. Robin.”

  “Perhaps he told you that I come from a Polish ghetto, and that I have suffered poverty and worked bitterly hard, and paid for everything that I have gained. Now I have had some success, and if I am cautious I and my loved ones do not have to worry the rest of our lives. But I have brains and I like to use them. It is a game that we play, you and me, all of us; you know what I mean?”

  “I know.”

  “It is a pleasure to rise in the world, to meet new people, educated people, those that have power. I know that I will always be a Jew, and carry the marks of the ghetto; I know that my accent is not right in any language, that I talk with my hands, and that I say things that are not in good taste, so I do not expect ever to shine in drawing rooms. But I expect that businessmen will recognize me, and that I will be able to do things that are worth while. And now through a chance I have met a big businessman—”

  Robbie raised his hand. “Not so big, Mr. Robin!”

  “I am telling you how it seems to me. You live in a world far above mine. Maybe you are not really better than me, but the world thinks you are, and I, with my ghetto memories, look up to you. I look at your son and I think: ‘I would like my boys should be like him.’ And if I persuade you to go into a deal with me, I have a chance to make good in a new way. If I cheat you, I will get some money quick, but then no more. You will say: ‘The little kike!’—and that is the end. But if I make good, then I have your respect. You tell your friends: ‘I don’t care what you say about the Jews, I know one that’s straight, I would trust him with the crown jewels’—or whatever it is that you value in America, the Statue of Liberty, shall we say?”

  “I am touched by your confidence, Mr. Robin,” smiled the American. “I will try to be worthy of your ideal.”

  “I will tell you something more, Mr. Budd—if I am not boring you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You have seen the little pictures of my two boys. How I love those boys is something I cannot tell any man. I would give my life if it would spare them unhappiness. Those boys were not born in a ghetto, and its marks are not on them. For them I imagine the finest things in the world. The little one, Freddi, is a quiet lad, and studious; he will be a professor, perhaps. But the other, Hansi, his choice is made; he lives for the violin. He will not be some obscure fellow in an orchestra; he has fire, he has temperament, and he works so hard, I know that he will be a virtuoso, a concert performer. You think, perhaps, it is a fond father’s dream; and maybe so, but to me it is real.”

  “I understand,” said Robbie, who also had a dream.

  “Then one day I meet on the train a little American gentleman, and I
talk with him. He is going to visit in a German castle; he has good manners, and what is more, he is kind; he plays the piano, he reads, he has traveled and met famous people, his talk is far beyond his years; it comes to me as incredible that a boy should know so much, and talk so like a man of the world. I go home and tell my boys about him, and how they wish they had been on that train and met that Lanny Budd! Then a year or two passes, and one day I get a letter, with a picture of himself and his mother in front of their home; my boys they pin it up on the wall, and all the time they are talking about that wonderful Lanny Budd. They write him little notes, and he answers, and they are saying: ‘Some day we shall meet him!’ They are saying: ‘Do you think that he would like us, Papa? Do you think he would mind that we are Jews?’ Perhaps you have never thought about how it is to be a Jew, Mr. Budd?”

  “I am interested to understand,” said Robbie, politely.

  “If you are an orthodox Jew, you have your faith, your ancient laws and customs, and that is enough; you are not interested in anyone but Jews, because you know that the rest is accursed. But if it happens that you learn modern ideas, and decide that the Sabbath is a day like any other day, and that ham will not hurt you if it is well cooked, and that it is all rubbish that you should not eat meat and butter from the same dish—then you are done with the old religion and you are looking for something else to take its place. You wish to live in the world like other people; to be a man among men. If somebody says: ‘I do not want you in my home because you are ignorant, and stupid, and you bore me’—that is all right, that may be true, and you cannot complain. But if someone says: ‘I do not want you in my home because you are a Jew’—that is not fair, and that hurts. But of course every Jew hears it, and a Polish Jew most of all, because that is supposed to be a very low kind. Every Jew wishes to meet gentiles, and to live among gentiles, but no Jew is ever quite happy, or quite sure; every Jew is thinking: ‘Is there something wrong here?’ or perhaps: ‘Have I done something I shouldn’t?’ But he cannot ask, because that is not done; and when I say this to you, I have to think if it will displease you.”

  “Not at all,” said Robbie. It was a concession on his part.

  “So little Hansi is thinking: ‘I will play the violin better and better, and then some day, when I meet the wonderful Lanny Budd, he will wish to play duets with me. He will really judge my music, and not as the rich boys do at school, my Jewishness.’ That is what my Hansi has said to me; and now, should I smash his dream that the wonderful Lanny Budd might wish to play music with him? Shall I have to hear him say: ‘No, Papa, I cannot have Lanny Budd for a friend, because his father says that you are not honest in business, that you took advantage of him when he trusted you’? So you see, Mr. Budd, I should have to go straight, even if it was against my nature.”

  “A new kind of business credentials, Mr. Robin!” said the other, smiling. “How much money would you say you could use to advantage in this business?”

  “It is hard to know in advance. You understand that the buying will always be a spot-cash proposition. I would say a hundred thousand dollars should be in the bank. I would report to you what I am doing, and if I saw a use for further sums, you could judge each proposition on its merits.”

  Robbie had never told his son just how much money he had made in the last few years; so Lanny was startled when his father said: “I guess I could find a hundred thousand without too much trouble. You give me the references you speak of, Mr. Robin, and I’ll look into them, and if they are what you tell me, I’ll take a flier with you.”

  Lanny was pleased, but he didn’t say so until they had dropped the dealer at his hotel. Then he chuckled and said: “You’re in the junk business, Robbie!”

  27

  The Federation of the World

  I

  The Peace Conference had begun its sessions. They had long debates as to whether they should debate in the English language or the French, and finally decided that they would use both, and have everything translated back and forth. They had a bitter controversy over the question whether they were going to try the Kaiser for his crimes; they had solemnly announced that they would do so, but the Kaiser was in Holland, which wouldn’t give him up, and gradually the debate petered out—there were so many more urgent problems. Their armies were costing several million dollars a day, and so many women wanted their men back home!

  President Wilson had set it as the first item on his program to establish a League of Nations and get it going. Everything else depended upon that, for without it you couldn’t be sure that any arrangements you made would last a year. Premier Clemenceau had publicly sneered at the idea; what he believed in was the “balance of power”—which meant a group of nations strong enough to lick Germany. He and the President were now meeting daily, testing out each other’s sparring power; meanwhile the American professors had to live upon scraps of gossip. Was it the Premier or the President who had been frowning when they emerged from the conference room that day?

  The guessing grew hot when the problem of a League of Nations was assigned to a commission. That, obviously, represented Clemenceau’s effort to shelve and forget it. But Wilson countered by appointing himself as one of the American members of the League of Nations Commission. Naturally he became chairman of it, since it was his idea and his hobby; when he began attending its daily sessions, he hadn’t time to attend any other sessions, and so Clemenceau was left to fume and fret. The Americans rubbed their hands with delight. The Big Chief was really going to fight!

  Everybody in the American staff began talking League. Even those who were supposed to be busy on other assignments couldn’t keep their fingers out of the pie. Such a colossal enterprise, the most momentous in history! The poet Tennyson had sung about “the Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World,” and all these professors had learned the verses in school. How much of sovereignty was each nation to part with? What representation was each to have? Should the little ones have equal power with the big ones? And what about the colonial peoples? What about the national minorities?

  President Wilson had a draft of the League somewhere among his baggage. Several members of “The Inquiry” had their drafts. The British, having an “Inquiry” of their own, had prepared a layout, of which a prominent feature was that each of the British dominions should count as a separate nation and have its own delegates. The French had a plan, of which the most important feature was an international army, to make sure that Germany could never again invade France. All these plans had to be put together, in spite of their being incompatible.

  II

  Lanny Budd had been assigned to a room on the top floor of the Crillon, on the courtyard, along with two other secretaries. But after a couple of weeks the three were moved out to a near-by hotel, to make room for more important persons who kept arriving from America. However, Lanny still had his meals in the hotel dining room, because Professor Alston wanted him. Under the regulations he was allowed to have one guest each day. He would invite his father to meet the staff and convince himself that they were not so tender-minded as they had been imagined. He would give his mother a chance to exercise her charms upon a susceptible group of gentlemen a long way from home and not having much opportunity to enjoy feminine society.

  It had been only a little more than six months since Marcel had disappeared into the furnace of war; but Beauty’s grief was less, because, as she explained to Lanny, she had suffered so much of it in anticipation. This suffering had given her dignity, without depriving her of those weapons of earlier days. She was still on the good side of forty, and deducted a couple of years more in her thoughts about herself. She couldn’t very well deduct more, with a son seated at her side, several inches taller than herself!

  Beauty was far too much a woman of the world to pretend to knowledge before these professors; she chose the line of calling herself an ignoramus and deploring her wasted youth. “Oh, Professor Alston,” she would exclaim, “do make these wonderful ideas of you
rs work, so that we women in Europe won’t have a nightmare pouncing down on us every generation!” It was an old practice of hers, in dealing with the male sex, to ask each about his own work, listen attentively, and express admiration. This proved as effective with scholars as with those of higher station, and Beauty might have eaten all her meals at the expense of the United States government if she had cared to accept the invitations showered upon her.

  She told these learned ones about her friend Emily Chattersworth, and many of them knew the name; the older ones remembered the banking scandal, back in the bad old days when pirates had sailed the high financial seas. Mrs. Emily had rented a town house, and had teas every Thursday, and a salon on a modest scale on Sunday evenings; with her permission, Beauty invited Lanny’s chief, and he went, and met important people: a member of the French cabinet, or a general just returned from service in Salonika; an English statesman who had flown from London that afternoon, or a Russian grand duke who had escaped from the Bolsheviki by way of Siberia and Manchuria. A youth who had access to social opportunities such as these was considered an unusually good secretary.

  III

  One of the persons whom Lanny saw most frequently was George D. Herron. This prophet of the new day came to see Alston, and they talked, and Lanny listened. Herron seemed to take a fancy to the youth, perhaps thinking of him as a possible convert. They sat on a bench by the embankment of the Seine, and the older man interpreted the events of the time in accordance with his peculiar ideas.

  The only Socialist Lanny had met so far was that editor who had taken such unfair advantage of a boy’s indiscretion. It appeared that Herron had called himself a Social-Democrat a couple of decades ago, and had helped to found the Socialist party in the United States; but the war had brought a violent reaction, and Social-Democracy was now in his mind a part of “Germanism,” the archenemy of the soul of man. It based itself upon materialism, denying freedom and respect for the personality. Herron’s vision was of a society transformed by brotherhood and love; he found those qualities embodied in Jesus, and that was why he called himself a Christian Socialist, even while rejecting the dogmas of the churches.